Lost and Found (Perdu et Trouvee)
Paris Edition
-Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves (Henry David Thoreau)
Now, that's Talent
I have a peculiar talent for losings things. Like journals, documents, jackets, husbands and human remains. It happens. I may have to accept the fact that unless (and even if) I create a master inventory list for our journey of what we have and where it is, I will continue to leave behind a trail of stuff (and even if a husband were on the list, well, you know...). My new yardstick (or metric stick, depending on where we are) for putting each loss into perspective is this: "Are the kids okay? Alrighty, then, let's move on..."
Who's Exaggerating?
Except, I still lose my mind sometimes. When Sean was in the hospital with the so-called "flesh-eating" bacteria last fall, he underwent an extensive skin graft on his legs: Doctors removed about a foot of skin from his upper left thigh and sewed it onto the back of his upper right thigh. Despite being on doses of morphine that would probably knock you or me to Pluto, Sean was seemingly conscious and screaming as if the doctor were pulling his legs from their sockets when it the graft's staples were removed. I asked the doc, "What were you doing in there to my husband?" His reply: "He has an 'exaggerated pain response.' He's been on so many drugs for so long, and his body has been through so much, he feels a lot more pain than you or I would undergoing the same procedure."
Interesting theory. Assuming that's true, I wonder if those of us not mainlining narcotics experience a similar "exaggerated response" to pain or loss. Lose a husband, a child, marriage, home, job, your life's savings and suddenly, you're a teensy bit on edge about which ticking time bomb will explode next. It happened once; It could happen again, right? So while after a major loss, you may have achieved a measure of perspective about what's important, you may also feel guarded, in an almost primitive way, against losing what remains.
Screaming in the Streets
This is how I explain screaming (mine) in the streets of Paris several nights ago. Chelsea (our sitter), the kids and I had a few stops to make to gather dinner before walking the last block to the apartment. We split up so she could buy bacon at the store, and I could buy bread at the bakery. "Who wants to go with Mommy?" I asked. Fiona piped up: "I do." Finn, for the first time, decided not to be a mama's barnacle and go with Chelsea. We'd rejoin each other in 5 minutes. I walked with Fiona, who looked quite distinct, wearing her ballet tutu, to check out the line at the Paul bakery next door. I peeked inside for oh, 3 seconds... I turned around, and Fiona was gone. GONE. GONE.
That's when my "exaggerated loss response" kicked in. I panicked. Complete, heart-pounding-in-throat panic. I was standing at the crossroads of the Rue de Buci and Rue de Seine, and could look down 4 streets. Turned down #1: No Fiona. #2: Nope. #3: Not there. #4: Oh, shit. Instead of taking a moment to consider maybe Fiona had changed her mind and gone with Chelsea, I started screaming, loudly: "Fee-OH-Nah... Fee-OHHHH-Nah..." Not only was I thinking about every child abduction news story I'd ever covered as a reporter (in which, the perpetrator nearly always turns out to be an aquaintance, or member of the child's own family, at least in the U.S.), I was also remembering a warning from a man in the Metro the day before, after Finley disappeared for an instant behind a crowd. The man asked, "How old is he?" When I said, "Almost five," he replied, "You must watch him very carefully. You've heard about what can happen to children here?..." Looking back on the encounter now, it seems more sinister than good samaritan. I mean, is France's rate of stranger abduction higher than the U.S.'s? Is there a reason to guard my children more in Paris than at, say, Walmart in the States? Unfortunately, Metro Man had planted a seed in my head that germinated when Fiona disappeared.
"Avez-vous vu une petite fille dans in robe de ballet?" ("Have you seen a little girl wearing a ballet dress?") I asked several people at the cafe on the corner, and a couple men on the street. "Je l'ai vu la-bas" ("I saw her down there,") said one man in a gray business suit, before shaking his head after I described Fiona further. "Non, non..." he had decided it wasn't Fiona he'd seen. Finally, I pursued Plan B: What if Fiona had simply changed her mind and followed Chelsea and Finley into the store when I wasn't watching? I ran into the Carrefour market, and started yelling as I approached the meat section, where I figured my group would be: "Fee-OH-nah!" "Fee-OHHHH-nah!" The din of the store, crowded with after-work shoppers on a Friday night, diminished, and shoppers started staring at the strange, screaming American. Finally, behind an aisle, I saw them: Chelsea, Finley and.... Fiona. Oh my God, Fiona. I grabbed her and started to cry. "Never leave me. Don't ever leave me. How could you just leave me?" I sobbed, while Fiona looked at me like I was nuts. I grabbed both kids by the hand and started to lead them out of the store. An employee, maybe after witnessing my distress said, "Ca va, madame. Ca va." ("It's okay, ma'am, it's okay.")
Yes, it's okay. I had found Fiona; she was safe; we all were.
Little and Lost
And then, there are the smaller things I've lost: some important, some not. I had a ticket to visit the Louvre one moment, and the next...I couldn't find it. I was standing near the restrooms, waiting for Chelsea and the kids to emerge, when suddenly...no ticket. My dad said, "I think you dropped it on the ground. I saw a cleaning woman sweep it up and put it in the garbage. I didn't know it was your ticket, or I would've come over. Maybe you could ask if someone could retrieve it for you." Hmm... worth a shot. I marched to the information desk and said, "J'ai perdu mon billet d'entree. Je crois que la femme de menage l'ont mis dans la poubelle." (which means something like: "I've lost my entry ticket. I think the cleaning woman chucked it in the trash."). The man looked at me, consulted a colleague, looked in a file and produced a single ticket. He said, "C'est pas la votre, mais vouz pouvez l'avoir, madame." ("It's not yours, but you can have it..."). You never know unless you ask.
Ashes, ashes...We all Fall...
Another irreplacable item had been weighing on my mind: I had a grand scheme that the kids and I would sprinkle a tiny bit of Sean's ashes in each country we visited. It would be a way to honor his memory and maintain the ritual we started shortly after Sean died. But after unpacking our belongings in Paris, I couldn't find the small Ziploc bags of human remains. Who loses their late husband's ashes? Apparently, me. I was sure I'd left them behind in Cleveland, where I (for the 12th time) re-packed our bags and left several items behind to lighten our load. I asked my mom to look for the bag of ash and send it, if possible ("Maybe you could pack it with some t-shirts, or something?" I'd said "And Jean-Marie in Luxembourg would like some chewing tobacco, too."). I'm sure Customs would approve.
I knew Sean would forgive the error. He's with us in so many ways each day, we don't need a bag of sand-colored powdery ash to remind us of his presence. And yet... My notions of a sprinkle of Sean at the Eiffel Tower or in the Seine were blowing away...like dust. It was hard to relinquish the plan. Maybe we could find another representation instead, like pouring Guinness into the Seine?
While looking for vitamins 2 days ago, I found the bag of ashes. It was in my carry-on bag, in a mesh side compartment. Once again, I could hear Sean say, "I told you it would turn up. Don't panic." Fiona and I left a couple pinches of Sean in the grass near the base of the Eiffel Tower last night. She also sprinkled him into the middle of a 3-trunked tree, saying later, "Maybe we can grow more daddies from there."
The panic I felt after losing sight of Fiona has subsided. She has not strayed from our side since the incident in the market. And I reclaimed "my" Paris neighborhood last night by walking hand-in-hand with Fiona to the store near the crossroads of Rue de Buci and Rue de Seine, looking at my little girl, telling her how very happy I am she's here with me.
Paris Edition
-Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves (Henry David Thoreau)
 |
| Dawn and Fiona at the Luxembourg Gardens |
I have a peculiar talent for losings things. Like journals, documents, jackets, husbands and human remains. It happens. I may have to accept the fact that unless (and even if) I create a master inventory list for our journey of what we have and where it is, I will continue to leave behind a trail of stuff (and even if a husband were on the list, well, you know...). My new yardstick (or metric stick, depending on where we are) for putting each loss into perspective is this: "Are the kids okay? Alrighty, then, let's move on..."
Who's Exaggerating?
Except, I still lose my mind sometimes. When Sean was in the hospital with the so-called "flesh-eating" bacteria last fall, he underwent an extensive skin graft on his legs: Doctors removed about a foot of skin from his upper left thigh and sewed it onto the back of his upper right thigh. Despite being on doses of morphine that would probably knock you or me to Pluto, Sean was seemingly conscious and screaming as if the doctor were pulling his legs from their sockets when it the graft's staples were removed. I asked the doc, "What were you doing in there to my husband?" His reply: "He has an 'exaggerated pain response.' He's been on so many drugs for so long, and his body has been through so much, he feels a lot more pain than you or I would undergoing the same procedure."
Interesting theory. Assuming that's true, I wonder if those of us not mainlining narcotics experience a similar "exaggerated response" to pain or loss. Lose a husband, a child, marriage, home, job, your life's savings and suddenly, you're a teensy bit on edge about which ticking time bomb will explode next. It happened once; It could happen again, right? So while after a major loss, you may have achieved a measure of perspective about what's important, you may also feel guarded, in an almost primitive way, against losing what remains.
Screaming in the Streets
This is how I explain screaming (mine) in the streets of Paris several nights ago. Chelsea (our sitter), the kids and I had a few stops to make to gather dinner before walking the last block to the apartment. We split up so she could buy bacon at the store, and I could buy bread at the bakery. "Who wants to go with Mommy?" I asked. Fiona piped up: "I do." Finn, for the first time, decided not to be a mama's barnacle and go with Chelsea. We'd rejoin each other in 5 minutes. I walked with Fiona, who looked quite distinct, wearing her ballet tutu, to check out the line at the Paul bakery next door. I peeked inside for oh, 3 seconds... I turned around, and Fiona was gone. GONE. GONE.
That's when my "exaggerated loss response" kicked in. I panicked. Complete, heart-pounding-in-throat panic. I was standing at the crossroads of the Rue de Buci and Rue de Seine, and could look down 4 streets. Turned down #1: No Fiona. #2: Nope. #3: Not there. #4: Oh, shit. Instead of taking a moment to consider maybe Fiona had changed her mind and gone with Chelsea, I started screaming, loudly: "Fee-OH-Nah... Fee-OHHHH-Nah..." Not only was I thinking about every child abduction news story I'd ever covered as a reporter (in which, the perpetrator nearly always turns out to be an aquaintance, or member of the child's own family, at least in the U.S.), I was also remembering a warning from a man in the Metro the day before, after Finley disappeared for an instant behind a crowd. The man asked, "How old is he?" When I said, "Almost five," he replied, "You must watch him very carefully. You've heard about what can happen to children here?..." Looking back on the encounter now, it seems more sinister than good samaritan. I mean, is France's rate of stranger abduction higher than the U.S.'s? Is there a reason to guard my children more in Paris than at, say, Walmart in the States? Unfortunately, Metro Man had planted a seed in my head that germinated when Fiona disappeared.
"Avez-vous vu une petite fille dans in robe de ballet?" ("Have you seen a little girl wearing a ballet dress?") I asked several people at the cafe on the corner, and a couple men on the street. "Je l'ai vu la-bas" ("I saw her down there,") said one man in a gray business suit, before shaking his head after I described Fiona further. "Non, non..." he had decided it wasn't Fiona he'd seen. Finally, I pursued Plan B: What if Fiona had simply changed her mind and followed Chelsea and Finley into the store when I wasn't watching? I ran into the Carrefour market, and started yelling as I approached the meat section, where I figured my group would be: "Fee-OH-nah!" "Fee-OHHHH-nah!" The din of the store, crowded with after-work shoppers on a Friday night, diminished, and shoppers started staring at the strange, screaming American. Finally, behind an aisle, I saw them: Chelsea, Finley and.... Fiona. Oh my God, Fiona. I grabbed her and started to cry. "Never leave me. Don't ever leave me. How could you just leave me?" I sobbed, while Fiona looked at me like I was nuts. I grabbed both kids by the hand and started to lead them out of the store. An employee, maybe after witnessing my distress said, "Ca va, madame. Ca va." ("It's okay, ma'am, it's okay.")
Yes, it's okay. I had found Fiona; she was safe; we all were.
Little and Lost
 |
| Holding the "found" ticket at the Louvre |
Ashes, ashes...We all Fall...
Another irreplacable item had been weighing on my mind: I had a grand scheme that the kids and I would sprinkle a tiny bit of Sean's ashes in each country we visited. It would be a way to honor his memory and maintain the ritual we started shortly after Sean died. But after unpacking our belongings in Paris, I couldn't find the small Ziploc bags of human remains. Who loses their late husband's ashes? Apparently, me. I was sure I'd left them behind in Cleveland, where I (for the 12th time) re-packed our bags and left several items behind to lighten our load. I asked my mom to look for the bag of ash and send it, if possible ("Maybe you could pack it with some t-shirts, or something?" I'd said "And Jean-Marie in Luxembourg would like some chewing tobacco, too."). I'm sure Customs would approve.
I knew Sean would forgive the error. He's with us in so many ways each day, we don't need a bag of sand-colored powdery ash to remind us of his presence. And yet... My notions of a sprinkle of Sean at the Eiffel Tower or in the Seine were blowing away...like dust. It was hard to relinquish the plan. Maybe we could find another representation instead, like pouring Guinness into the Seine?
 |
| Fiona, after sprinkling ashes in the tree |
The panic I felt after losing sight of Fiona has subsided. She has not strayed from our side since the incident in the market. And I reclaimed "my" Paris neighborhood last night by walking hand-in-hand with Fiona to the store near the crossroads of Rue de Buci and Rue de Seine, looking at my little girl, telling her how very happy I am she's here with me.
 |
| Fiona, sprinkling Sean's ashes at the Eiffel Tower |
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